6. Riven
CHAPTER SIX
RIVEN
I glanced at the backpack on Mireya’s lap while carefully merging into downtown traffic. It was small and clearly worn from years of use. The zipper was uneven, like it had been pulled too many times and was on the brink of destruction.
“That’s all you brought?” I asked, keeping my tone casual.
She turned toward me, her brows knitting slightly. “What do you mean?”
I flicked my eyes toward the bag. “For the move.”
“Oh.” Understanding softened her expression. She adjusted it slightly on her knees. “I already had most of what I need at the hospital.”
That made sense. It sounded efficient and responsible in a way that was very like her. Still, something about it didn’t sit right with me.
“So everything else is at work?” I asked carefully. “Not just scrubs?”
She let out a small, almost embarrassed laugh.
“Yeah. I keep other things there too, even my clothes for emergencies. It’s easier than going back and forth all the time.
” She hesitated, then added, “I do my laundry at the hospital instead of paying for a laundromat. It’s cheaper that way.
These clothes just haven’t been washed yet. ”
A laugh escaped my mouth before I could stop it.
She looked at me like I'd just insulted her entire existence. "Why is that funny?"
"It's not funny," I said quickly, shaking my head while navigating through a yellow light. "It's just unexpected. You do laundry at work to save money."
Her chin lifted slightly. “You think that’s amusing?”
“No, I don't think that,” I said honestly while merging onto the highway. The traffic thinned as we moved forward. "I think it's resourceful. Smart, actually."
She studied my face closely, like she was deciding whether I was mocking her or not.
"I have a washer and dryer at home," I added after a moment. "You're welcome to use them whenever you need to."
Her face brightened.
It wasn’t a polite smile or forced gratitude. She truly lit up, as if I had handed her something rare instead of access to an appliance most people never thought twice about.
"Really?" Surprise filled her voice. Then she lowered it, like she didn't want to seem too eager. "That would be incredible. Thank you."
“It’s just a washing machine. Not a gift.”
She smiled anyway, warm and unguarded. "Still appreciate it."
I didn't respond. I simply kept driving, watching the city transform around us.
When I glanced at her again a few minutes later, she'd turned her attention to the window. Her grip on the bag had loosened, fingers resting gently instead of clutching desperately. She had relaxed without realizing it.
The financial district rose around us as we sat in comfortable silence.
Glass towers caught the afternoon sun and threw it back in blinding sheets of light.
Pedestrians in tailored suits moved purposefully, phones pressed to ears, coffee cups in hand.
Everyone looked late for something important.
This part of the city never slowed down.
I pulled up in front of my building and handed the keys to Marcus at the valet stand.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Cross,” he greeted.
“Marcus.” I nodded and walked around to Mireya’s side, but she’d already stepped out of the car, her bag slung over her shoulder. Her gaze traveled upward along the glass facade, taking in the full height of the building.
Then her face went completely blank. It was back to that carefully neutral expression medical professionals wore when confronted with something overwhelming.
"Welcome back, Dr. Cross," Richard called warmly from the front desk as I led Mireya through the lobby.
“Thank you, Richard.”
Mireya followed a step behind me, her worn sneakers silent against the polished marble floor. I walked toward the private elevator at the back, the one that required a key card and never stopped for anyone else.
She stepped inside and moved immediately to the far corner. Her eyes fixed on the wall. Her fingers crept back to the strap of her bag.
I stood on the opposite side and said nothing.
The doors slid shut.
It was a long ride to the fortieth floor. I had never noticed that before.
The elevator was not small, exactly, but she had made herself so compact against the wall that the space between us felt deliberately measured. Like she was aware of it. Like she was being careful.
I looked straight ahead at the brushed steel doors and watched her reflection in them instead.
She was doing the same thing I was. Staring forward. Not looking. Very deliberately not looking.
The elevator hummed upward and the city dropped away below us and neither of us said a word and the silence had a texture to it that I could not quite name.
Not uncomfortable. Something else. Something I was not going to examine in an enclosed space forty floors above the ground with her standing six feet away smelling faintly of hospital soap and something warmer underneath it.
I cleared my throat.
She shifted her weight.
The numbers climbed.
When the doors finally opened into the foyer, we both moved at exactly the same moment, and I stepped back to let her through first, and she turned to say thank you at the same time, and for one suspended second we were close enough that I could see the amber in her eyes catch the light from the hallway.
She looked up at me.
I looked at her.
"Sorry," she said quietly, stepping back.
"After you," I said. Like that was what I had been about to say all along.
She stepped through the doors and I followed, and I did not look back at the elevator, and I did not think about the silence, and I was completely fine.
"The guest suite is down the hall," I said, locking the elevator behind us with my key card. “I’ll show you where it is.”
“Oh, my God, you’re finally here!”
Emma burst out of the kitchen without warning.
She exploded into the room with more energy than I'd seen in months. Flour dusted her face and chocolate smeared the oversized hoodie she’d stolen from my closet. Her dark hair was tied back with what looked suspiciously like a dish towel.
“Hi!” she said brightly while bouncing forward. “You must be Nurse Mireya. I’m Emma, Riven’s sister.” The words tumbled over each other. “I tried making cookies, but I think they’re not edible. Do you like chocolate chip cookies? Actually, it doesn’t matter, mine taste like cardboard, anyway.”
She grabbed Mireya's hand and started pulling her toward the kitchen before either of us could respond.
“Come look at this disaster,” Emma said excitedly. “I need an expert opinion on whether I should throw them away and order real dessert.”
Mireya glanced back at me with wide eyes, silently asking for help.
I offered her none.
I simply watched as Emma dragged her away, talking nonstop about baking failures and whether the brown sugar was supposed to be rock hard or expired.
I followed them but stayed near the doorway.
The kitchen looked like a battlefield. Mixing bowls were smeared with batter. Measuring cups were scattered everywhere like fallen soldiers. There was an open bag of flour that had clearly exploded at some point. Cookie sheets held uneven lumps that might have been dough or something else entirely.
“See this?” Emma gestured proudly at the chaos. “It’s a complete disaster. But I mostly followed the recipe. I might have added extra chocolate chips.” She grinned. “More chocolate is always better, right?”
Mireya set her bag down carefully on the floor. “May I try one?”
“Please do. I can handle brutal honesty.”
Mireya picked up a cookie and took a cautious bite.
Her expression shifted. It was not disgust or approval. It looked like professional diplomacy mixed with confusion.
"It's..." She chewed slowly, clearly choosing her words carefully. "Very chocolatey."
Emma laughed. “That’s a nice person's language for terrible.” She waved her hand dismissively. “It’s okay. I already know I can’t bake. I had to do something while waiting, and Riven keeps nothing fun here.” She shot me an accusing look. “Everything in this apartment is healthy and boring.”
“Food is fuel,” I replied evenly. “It doesn't need entertainment value.”
“Do you hear him?” Emma said to Mireya, gesturing dramatically in my direction. “This is my life. All work and zero fun.” She smiled brightly. “You are going to help me fix him, right?”
Mireya hesitated briefly before offering a polite smile. “I'm here to monitor your health and cardiac recovery. Not to fix your brother.”
“But he definitely needs fixing.” Emma insisted, then turned to me. "Riv, when did you last smile?"
“This morning.”
“Liar,” Emma pointed, glaring at me.
"Let me show you to your room," I said to Mireya, cutting off Emma's interrogation. "You should settle in and rest."
“But what about the cookies?” Emma protested.
“They’re beyond saving. I’ll order dinner.”
Emma pouted but didn’t argue further.
I picked up Mireya's bag and headed down the hallway, her footsteps following behind me at a careful distance.
“That’s Emma’s room,” I said, pointing as we passed. “My office is at the end.” I gestured again, then stopped at the end of the hallway. “This room is yours.”
I opened the door to the guest suite.
The room was large, with neutral colors, like a clean hotel room. A king-sized bed sat in the center with white sheets. Light wood furniture filled the space, and an en-suite bathroom was visible through a partially open door.
“Wi-Fi password is on the nightstand,” I said. "The kitchen is always accessible. If you need anything, ask me or Emma."
Mireya stepped inside slowly and turned in a full circle like she needed to see everything before believing it was real.
“This room is bigger than my old apartment,” she said quietly, almost to herself.
There was no exaggeration. Just quiet disbelief.
“Get used to it.”
She turned to face me then, her amber-flecked brown eyes meeting mine, full of gratitude that made me uncomfortable.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “I know I keep saying it, but I truly mean it.”